The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [64]
“We Igorth have alwayth preferred ‘marthter,’” said Igor. “What wath it you were requiring?”
Vimes gestured toward the heads that covered every wall.
“I want them taken down as soon as possible. I can do this, can’t I, Mister Skimmer?”
“You are the ambassador, sir. Mmm, mmm.”
“Well, they’re coming down. All of them.”
Igor gave the camphor-smelling multitude a worried look.
“Even the thwordfith?”
“Even the swordfish,” said Vimes firmly.
“And the thnow leopardth?”
“Both of them, yes.”
“What about the troll?”
“Especially the troll. See to it.”
Igor could have been said to have looked as if his world had fallen down around his ears were it not for the fact that he already looked as if this had happened.
“What do you want to do with them, mathter?”
“That’s up to you. Throw them in the river, maybe. Ask Detritus about the troll…maybe it should be buried, or something. Is there any supper?”
“There’th walago,* noggi,† sclot,‡ swinefletht and thauthageth,” said Igor, still clearly upset about the trophies. “I’ll thop tomorrow, if Her Ladythip giveth me inshtructionth.”
“Is swineflesh the same as pork?” said Vimes. People in drought-stricken areas would have paid good money to have Igor pronounce “sausages.”
“Yes,” said Inigo.
“And what’s in the sausages?”
“Er…meat?” said Igor, looking as though he was ready to run.
“Good. We’ll give them a try.”
Vimes went upstairs and followed the sound of conversation until he reached a bedroom, where Sybil was laying clothes on a bed the size of a small country. Cheery was assisting her.
The walls were carved panels of wood. The bed was carved panels of wood. The Mad Fretworker of Bonk had been hard at work here, too. Only the floors weren’t wood; they were stone, and radiated cold.
“It’s a bit like the inside of a cuckoo clock, isn’t it,” said Sybil. “Cheery has volunteered to be my lady’s maid for now.”
Cheery saluted.
“Why not?” said Vimes. After a day like this, a lady’s maid with a long flowing beard now seemed perfectly normal.
“The floors are a bit chilly, though. Tomorrow I shall measure up for some carpets,” said Sybil firmly. “I know we won’t be here long, but we ought to leave something for the next people.”
“Yes, dear. That would be a good idea.”
“There’s a bathroom through there,” said Sybil, nodding. “There’s hot springs near here, apparently. They pipe them in. You’ll feel better for a hot bath.”
Ten minutes later Vimes was happy to agree. The water was a funny color and smelled a little of what he would politely call bad eggs, but it was good and hot and he could feel it drawing the tension out of his muscles.
A distressing scent of secondhand baked beans sloshed around him as he lay back. At the other end of the huge bath, the lump of pumice stone that he’d been using to rasp the dead skin off his feet banged against the side. Vimes watched it, unseeing, while he filed the thoughts of the day.
Things were starting to smell, just like the bathwater. The Scone of Stone had been stolen, had it? Now there was a coincidence.
It had been a complete shot in the dark. But lately he was on the lucky side when it came to nocturnal targets. Someone had pinched the replica Scone, and now the real one had gone missing, and someone in Ankh-Morpork who was good at making rubber molds had been found dead. You didn’t need the brains of Detritus in a snowdrift to suspect a connection.
A recollection nagged at him. Someone had said something and he’d thought it odd at the time but then something else had happened and it had gone out of his mind. Something about…a welcome to Bonk. Only…
Well, he was here. No doubt about that.
Absolute confirmation of the fact was brought forth half an hour later, at supper.
Vimes cut into a sausage, and stared.
“What is in these? All this…pink stuff?” he demanded.
“Er…that’s the meat, Your Grace,” said Inigo, on the other side of the table.
“Well, where’s the texture? Where’s the white bits